Down
by Eleanor and The Rigbys
Summary: A fic about the Beatles during the Hamburg days. George is sick and the Beatles must nurse their guitarist back to health. Rated for language.
1. Chapter 1

Synopsis: A fic about the Beatles during the Hamburg days. George is sick and the less than motherly Beatles must nurse their lead guitarist back to health. (Rated for swearing.)

Down

By

Eleanor Rigby

"Wake up you git, I'm starved!"

George groaned and rolled over, opening one puffy eyelid to look at Paul. His band-mate, who'd been standing over the bed with his hands on hips, now faltered slightly, "George?"

"I don't feel so good…" His voice was low, scratchy.

"You're hung over…"

"Not," George murmured.

"How much did you drink last night?"

"It's not that Paul…"

George _had_ been complaining for a couple days of being tired and he'd had a bit of a cough, but they'd brushed it off, figuring it would pass soon enough. It obviously hadn't. His skin was sallow and a fine sheen of sweat clung to it, except his cheeks, flushed red, and his nose, raw and drippy. Paul leaned down placing a hand tentatively on his forehead then drew it away hastily, "bleedin' hell George."

George shivered at the touch, "f*ckin'ell! Your hands are like ice, I'm _freezing_…"

"You're not, you're burning up!"

"Oh," he said through a cough that threatened to spew out a lung. Paul stepped back automatically, nose wrinkling. When the bout of coughing ceased George let his head fall back against his pillow with a groan, "it hurts…"

Paul's brows knit, "what hurts?"

"_Everything_…me head, me throat, me stomach…everything."

This wasn't good. In fact, this was very, very bad, if George was sick like this he couldn't play, not the seven hour set Bruno Koschmider, their employer for all intents and purposes, expected anyway. They might've been able to pull it off without him, but if Stu was still a no-show, and Paul had a strong feeling he would be, there was just no way.

"John..!" He called into the hall, his voice tinged with just a hint of panic.

John, slicking up his hair in the bathroom across the way, heard the tone, even over the chatter of ladies in the stalls beside him and the din of the film playing a wall away. He took one more look in the mirror, and satisfied, headed back toward their sleeping quarters.

"What?" He asked, leaning in the door frame, "haven't you got baby out of bed yet?"

Paul forgot the situation for a moment in his irritation, "Do I look like his Mum to you?" This was a common source of contention between the lads—whose job it was to look after the youngest Beatle; though George stubbornly maintained he didn't need any looking after.

"Spittin' image," John nodded with a laugh, his face fell slightly when Paul didn't retaliate, brows knitting, "what?"

"George's ill."

"Prolly just hung-over."

"No, see for yourself…"

John came over to the bed, "how you feelin' Harrison?"

George, whose eyes had fallen shut, opened one, "like shite…"

"He might be alright, get some food into him, you know."

"He's hot as hell..."

John touched George's forehead, pulling his hand away quickly as if he'd been burned, "blimey..!" He turned back to Paul, exchanging a genuinely concerned look, both thinking the same thing.

Pete appeared then in the doorway, "oy lads I thought we were gonna get something to eat—"

"George's ill," Paul and John said together.

"Oh," Pete came fully into the room, "is he bad?"

"He's a fever, a high one I think."

A crease formed in Pete's forehead as he frowned, thinking what the others had thought, though he was the only one willing to voice it, "we've gotta play tonight…"

"I know," John said, dropping down on the couch he used as a bed.

"But—," Paul started, interrupted by another bout of coughing from the bed, finishing his sentence for him.

George was sitting up suddenly, gripping his stomach, "lads I think I'm gonna—," there was a gagging guttural sound as his stomach constricted and he vomited in the middle of the floor. All three other Beatles jumped back, disgusted and less than discrete about it.

"Fuckin' hell George!" Paul shouted, nose wrinkling, "you almost got me shoes!"

"Sorry," George breathed hoarsely, wiping his mouth, "I can hardly help—," he convulsed again, retching in the same spot, "shite…" he groaned, spitting the foul stuff from his mouth.

The acrid, bitter smell in the air must have been too much for Pete for he ducked out hastily. John got up, looking to follow, but Paul stopped him, "get some water from the lavvy would you?"

"Ey?"

"For George."

"Oh, right…"

"And something to clean this up with, Koschmider's gonna kill us if he sees this mess."

"As if he'd ever show his face 'round here."

"_John…_"

"_Ja Reichsleiter_!" John saluted in his mock 'Nazi' German before disappearing into the hall.

Paul sidestepped the mess on the floor, placing a hand on George's back, "you ok?" George said nothing but shook his head, doubling over and folding his arms around himself, shivering. Paul sighed and slid his arm around his shaking shoulders, "alright mate…yer alright."

John came back a moment later with a glass of water in one hand and a ridiculously large amount of paper towel in the other, "Pete's gone down to talk to ol' Bruno, maybe he can fill our spot tonight."

Paul took the water, "you sent Pete to _talk_?"

"Had to get the water didn't I?"

Paul rolled his eyes, "we wouldn't need to cancel if your bloody bass player would show up-!"

"Sod off!"

"You know it's true!"

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Talk to him!"

"Right, well if I ever get a chance without you sticking your ugly gob in the middle—!"

"Oh that's rich! You spineless wanker, you'd never—!"

George started coughing again drawing their attention back to the real problem at hand. Paul started rubbing his back again, offering him the water. John laid the paper towels down over the vomit that was beginning to spread out across the cement floor. George took the water in a shaky hand and managed a small sip before, shaking his head, he passed it back to Paul.

"Alright Georgie," Paul soothed, helping him to lie back down. Paul made to get up but George clung to him, protesting. Paul caught John's eyes over George's head and rolled his, grinning wryly as he stretched out on the bed beside George, the younger man curling up against him.

John watched, feeling slightly torn. Usually he would've mocked such affection between his two youngest band mates but there wasn't really anything baiting about a guy comforting his sick mate. In fact, though he'd never admit it, John felt a little surge of jealousy. He was close with the lads, of course, and they looked up to him, but he wondered, if it had been him in George's place, would they feel comfortable doing the same for him? Stu would, but he was never around anymore anyway, Pete wouldn't, but he wasn't really a part of the group the way the others were… John got up from the floor and climbed into the bed on the other side of George.

Paul cocked a brow at him questioningly, John shrugged, "it's no wonder he's ill," he said gruffly, "bloody freezing in here."

"You queer."

"Ey, watch it McCartney, I'll cripple ya…"

"Shut your gobs would ya? Me head's killing me…" George grumbled.

"Take that tone with me son and it will be," John returned, though quite a bit softer.

"Oooh, you got me sick with fright…" George chuckled, turning into a cough.

"_Sleep _Harrison, or we'll leave you to yourself."

"Yes Mammy," he murmured, scrunching down further into the warm pocket created by his mates. Paul brushed the sweaty hair back from George's forehead fondly.

He really was just a kid, as much as he pretended to be a man, and as much as the other lads picked him apart for it. It was a lot for a seventeen-year-old, being in a foreign country with four other guys who were practically kids themselves, away from your Mum, up every night playing—He loved it, like the rest of them, but it was bound to take its toll sometime.

They sat in silence for a long time as George began to drift into an uneasy sleep, the other two watching as the rise and fall of his chest deepened and his breath lengthened steadily. There was something comforting about it, John thought, as he too began to feel a bit drowsy.

There was commotion in the hall between two patrons and George shifted, groaning in his sleep.

Paul extracted himself from the grasp of the younger man just a bit to slide the door closed with his foot, before moving back into his former position. "Dom, dom, dom, dom, dom-be-doobie, dom…" he found himself singing quietly the first song that popped into his head, "love, love me darling, come and go with me, please don't send me way beyond the sea, I need you darling, so come go with me…"

John was shaken from his half-sleep by the sound of Paul's voice, singing a slow rendition of "Come Go With Me", the softest he'd ever heard. He turned his head to study him. The look on his face, as he watched George's fitful sleep, was pure unadulterated affection, like a parent might have for their child, or a brother for a young sibling… Something about it made John's heart glow and ache at the same time, "Paul, you fuckin' fairy," he whispered, though he was grinning as he said it.

When Paul started the next verse John joined in, "come, come, come, come, come into my heart, tell me darling we will never part, I need you darling, so come go with me—yes, I need you, yes I really need you, please say you'll never leave me. Well, say, you never, yes you really never, never gave me a cha-a-ance…"

Paul gave John a wink, "come, come, come, come, come into my heart, tell me darling we will never part, I need you darling, so come go with me…" They sang it once through again, voices lowering and then fading out entirely. George stirred at the silence, face contorting as a small groan escaped his lips. Paul stroked his hand over his hair softly until the features smoothed again into peaceful slumber.

"You're eh—you're good with 'im," John whispered, his compliment coming out a bit clumsily.

"How's that?"

John shrugged, "dunno, just…you know."

Paul glanced at him, John was looking at his hands, plucking awkwardly at the blanket, "Well I had Michael, you know, and all me cousins and such, so I know a bit…"

"Yeah," John's moment of unguarded sincerity passed just as quickly as it had come, "just like a bird…"

Paul shot him a look but let it rest, not wanting to risk waking George again, he needed to rest so he could get _well_, so they could keep on playing.


	2. Chapter 2

Synopsis: A fic about the Beatles during the Hamburg days. George is sick and the less than motherly Beatles must nurse their lead guitarist back to health. (Rated for language.)

A.N.: Thanks to Lillith O.S.S. for her review! Yeah, I'll have to work that in at some point!

Down  
By  
Eleanor Rigby

Chapter 2

When Pete returned, face flushed from the cold and from the verbal assault of Koschmider, he found the three guitarists snoozing peacefully together in George's bed. He stopped in the doorway, watching them for a moment, a bemused half-smile on his face. George was snuggled up close against Paul, his head on his chest, John had slumped over slightly against him, and Paul's head had dropped lightly onto John's shoulder. Paul's hand had slipped down from where he'd be stroking George's hair and now rested lightly at the base of his neck, John must have stretched his arm out at some point for it was draped now behind the other two, wrapping loosely around Paul's shoulder.

He wasn't inclined to wake them just yet, having only bad news to share, so instead he dropped onto the bed opposite, Stu's bed though he'd hardly slept in it of late, pulling off his shoes and immediately burying his holy socks under the covers to keep them from the cold.

As quiet as he'd tried to be though, the creaking of the mattress had pierced the peaceful silence of the room. John stirred, removing his support from Paul's head, who sat up, though they were both careful not to much jostle the Beatle still sleeping between them. John pushed his glasses up to rub his eyes, "wassamatter?" he asked, incoherently.

Paul yawned, shaking his head, "dunno…" it was then he noticed Pete, he was suddenly quite awake, "what'd the ol' man say?"

Pete frowned, shaking his head.

"What?" John asked, having been rubbing his eyes he missed the gesture.

"No go lads," Pete said with an apologetic shrug, "he said we've signed a contract and we'd better stick to it."

"Manky git," John grumbled.

"Maybe we can get someone from another band…the Hurricanes or somet'." Paul suggested.

"They're booked."

"There's other bands too..."

Pete shook his head, "I asked Koschmider, everything's booked."

"The bastard would say that, anyroad George can't play."

"Have you tried to get a-hold of Stu?" Pete asked tentatively, their absentee bass-player was a sore topic.

John shook his head and swung his legs over the side of the bed, "I'll ring Astrid's," he murmured, standing and pulling on his coat before he disappeared into the hall.

The swirl of voices around him had woken George and he was attempting to sit up now, Paul pushed him back down lightly, "you should rest…"

"Gotta take a piss," George murmured groggily, shivering as his feet met the cold floor. Paul tried to help him up but George pushed him away, using the wall for support as he stood, and wobbly made his way toward the door.

John, coming back into the room in a huff, nearly knocked him over, "Watch'er Harris—what are you doing out of bed!"

"Lav," George muttered.

"Let me help—,"

George shot him a dirty look, "I can handle this meself thanks," he made his way slowly into the hall and disappeared into the bathroom.

"Well?" Paul and Pete asked together.

John was scrounging around in his pockets and seemed distracted, "no answer…anyone got a ciggie?"

"Damn it…"

"Well at least he's up and moving now."

Paul shook his head, "he looks half-dead," he pulled a rumpled pack from his pocket and tossed it to John.

"Ta," he lit it, "A half-dead guitarist is better than none at all I'd say."

"Don't be daft, even if we could get him up there—we'd have to prop him up, the crowd wouldn't go for it."

"What other choice have we got?"

"Not bloody play."

"Bruno would nail us for breach of contract," Pete put in, "he's made that clear enough."

"But George can't play…"

"Of course I can." The other three looked up to see a pale-faced but determined George in the doorway, leaning heavily on the wall.

"George—."

"Don't _George _me Paul, I'm playing."

"You can hardly stand straight."

"Listen I've worked it all out, John you've still got those pills Astrid got from her Mum yeah?"

"A few, why?."

"Right, hand 'em over."

John gave him a disparaging look, "you sure?"

George nodded, "not much choice is there?"

The other two looked on dismally as John removed a small bottle from his pocket and knocked two preludin into his hand.

"Better make it three," George said, reaching for his glass of water from earlier. John made a face but tipped another from the bottle. "Cheers," George gritted, tossing them onto the back of his tongue and taking a gulp of water.

"Do you think it'll do any good?"

"If he doesn't hurl 'em back up."

A half-an-hour later the four Beatles, minus their bassist as per usual, were making their way down the Reeperbahn—four Scousers looking tough, if out of place, in their leather gear and greased back hair. George was a jittery mess from the preludin, sweaty from the fever and shivering against the bitter December air, but he was walking upright at least, without much help from his mates, and seemed to be holding it together.

When they got to the club the place was empty except for a few scattered patrons, but this was normal, they nodded to the bartender, gave the waitresses the usual "wink-and-a-smile" routine and went about setting up their equipment for the night. George, usually meticulous about his gear, was too wound-up to care and buzzed about with shaky, sweaty hands until Paul forced him to sit down and _relax_.

"You're gonna make yourself ill—_more_ ill."

"Can't help it."

"Never should've let you take those pills."

"Let me?"

"Aye, let you…what?" Paul stopped short, George had pinned him with one of his glares that would one day be infamous.

"As if I need your permission McCartney."

He paused in tuning Stu's bass, "you know that's not what I meant."

"But it is though."

"Come off it."

"You come off, I don't need you lookin' after me…"

"Like hell you don't!"

John poked his head in, "if you two lads would kindly take this outside, Pete and I will carry on withal."

George strummed his hand across the strings violently, "let's get this bloody over with."

They played through the first couple of hours decently well, almost up to their usual standard, though George refused to sing after the first song, when he nearly coughed up a lung, managing to cover up any other outbursts with a quick swig of water. He was off though, and it only became more evident as the night progressed. His playing wasn't as tight; he came in wrong twice and seemed completely disconnected from his surroundings, though the preludin had him practically foaming at the mouth.

"One more hour to go," Paul said as he slumped down onto a bar stool, George attempted to do the same and nearly toppled over.

"Aye," was all he managed, his head dropping onto the counter.

John across from him was taking a swig of beer, "booster?"

"He won't sleep tonight if he pops another," Paul intervened, adding quickly before anyone could protest, "and you need sleep to get better. I'm not playing with a half-dead guitarist for the rest of the gig, it's bad enough with our magically disappearing bassist."

"Prolly right," George murmured, burying his head in his arms on the counter, "oy, wake me when it's time."

Paul, John and Pete half-watched the other act with disinterest, sipping at their beer. There was a good sized crowd tonight and usually the boys would've been hopping, mixing the set-list, chatting up birds, making a real show of it, but nobody felt inclined to so much as speak, let alone… Their hour break was over all too soon and there was Koschmider, appearing out of the smoky gloom with his thick German accent, "_English_…"

John was surveying the sleeping George, "maybe we can get by, let him sleep this set?"

"With two guitars and a drummer?"

"Could do a couple Piano pieces."

"Not with this crowd, they'd eat us alive."

"Fuck it," John shook George's shoulder, "come on Harrison."

"I'm up…!" He jolted upright, nearly toppling off the stool, he rubbed his eyes groggily, "I'm up, let's go…" He half stumbled toward the stage, over his head John and Paul exchanged looks.

John leaned into the microphone, using a thick german accent, "_Guten Aben, Willst Du ficken oder was_?" Some people laughed, most clapped, a few looked incredulous, but that was the usual reaction to John's brand of humor, "_Los geht's_!"

Paul's voice, mingled with the twang of George's slightly honky-tonk style guitar erupted in the small club, "For Goodness' sake, I got the hippy hippy shakes, ooh, I can't sit still, with the hippy hippy shakes, I get my fill…"

Even off as they were tonight John felt a little thrill go through him at the sound, _their _sound. They were brilliant, just like he knew they would be. The first time he'd held the guitar Aunt Mimi'd bought him, maybe before that…it seemed like he'd always known. Then he'd started the Quarrymen, his little skiffle band, and the feeling grew stronger. They'd evolved, original members dropped out, Paul joined, then George…it was so close he could taste it, now in Hamburg, in this sleazy little club, it was almost within his reach. They were brilliant and someday everyone was going to know it.

They were on the last chorus when it happened, John was so lost in his reverie that at first he didn't realize what was going on. There was a harsh, sour "thwang" as George completely missed the cord, and then a crash. He turned to see George, lying sprawled across the stage, his head fallen to one side. "Shit!"

They were beside him in a second, kneeling down, Paul was patting his cheeks, "George, come on, wake up, fuckin' hell…George come on son!" John felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced up, Horst, the nightclub bouncer but also their friend, was leaning over him.

"What happened?"

"He just…collapsed."

"He's been ill," Paul's voice came out high, fear making him sound and even look younger, "but he said he was all right…"

Horst nodded and wordlessly scooped the youngest Beatle up, carrying him backstage, the other started to follow when Koschmider appeared, looking enraged, "Beatles!"

Pete frowned, "I'll talk to him…"

Behind the stage stank even more of sweat and rancid alcohol than the rest of the Indra, it was dimly light too, but at least it was secluded. John could hear the crowd, slightly muffled, expressing their displeasure. Bastards, he thought, watching Horst do his best to bring George around, hadn't they seen what happened? George looked smaller somehow, diminished, white as paper and drenched in sweat…he looked like a sick child. The idea made John feel ill himself.

At last he came 'round, groaning, he blinked, clearing his vision though he didn't even try to sit up, "bloody fuckin' hell…" he murmured, his words slurring, "what happened?"

"You fainted son."

"I…" color rose on his pasty cheeks, embarrassed by this piece of information, "oh."

"We'd better get you home." John glanced at Paul, _home_? That filthy hole-in-the-wall in the back of a porn cinema was certainly anything but home. Paul seemed to read John's thoughts for he shook his head grimly. They couldn't even think it, they couldn't allow themselves to even consider it. John refocused on the 17-year-old as Horst helped him into a sitting position…he really ought to be home.


End file.
